


The Way You Looked Tonight

by blue_jack



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: And he likes it when Peter uses endearments, Bottom!Wade Wilson, Crossdressing, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Top!Peter Parker, Wade likes to wear pretty things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8818060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: “This damn dress,” Peter said, and Wade stilled, his eyes opening. “You knew it was going to drive me crazy!”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Lady in Red."

“You did it on purpose,” Peter gasped, grinding his hips into Wade’s, and Wade had never hated his cup this much, simply for existing (although it was nowhere near his loathing for Peter’s cup since the plastic could be pulled out).

“You can’t prove it was me,” Wade panted, clutching at Peter’s waist, his back, pulling him closer and arching into Peter’s body, frustrating himself all the more. “What I’d do anyway?”

“This _damn_ dress,” Peter said, and Wade stilled, his eyes opening. “You knew it was going to drive me crazy!”

“Yeah?” Wade said, his breath catching in his throat, something in his chest loosening that he hadn’t even known had been tight in the first place. He’d worn a dress in front of Peter before, so he’d known Peter wouldn’t really care, but to like it? To like Wade in it? 

He swallowed heavily before answering. “This ole thing?” He would’ve twirled if he’d had the room, but he wasn’t going to complain all things considered.

It was dark red with short puffed sleeves, a deep square neckline, a wide, black satin ribbon around the waist, and six black bows evenly spaced along the bottom of the skirt which ended mid-thigh on him. Wade had fallen in love with it the minute he’d seen it. 

Peter leaned back so they could look at each other. “I couldn’t stop watching you all night.” He settled his hand on Wade’s thigh, hot even through the two layers between them. “The skirt kept flipping up every time you moved,” he said, fingertips inching upward, “and I _knew_ you were wearing your stupid costume under it, but it was like my brain kept thinking, _this_ time I’ll see something different.” 

“Why, I declare, Mr. Spider-man, what were you hoping to see?” Wade asked breathily, shivering as Peter’s hand crept under his petticoat, bunching the fabric up. He kneaded Wade’s ass roughly just before he dropped to his knees in the damn alley where anyone could see, and fuck, oh fuck, why did Wade still have his pants on? It actually hurt, he was so hard.

“I see London, I see France, I see Deadpool’s panties,” Peter sing-songed, and it felt like Wade’s heart stopped.

“That doesn’t even rh-rhyme, loser. You have no flow,” Wade said in the sickest burn ever, but he couldn’t come up with anything better at the moment. Normally, he loved how the two of them could egg each other on, but he couldn’t tell if Peter was joking or not. Peter could’ve just finished with “underpants,” but he hadn’t, had explicitly said “panties,” and Wade didn’t know if he was just teasing or if he really wanted—?

“You’re right, I can do better. Hm, I see Deadpool’s silky pants,” Peter said as he started to undo Wade’s belt, and Wade still didn’t know if he meant it, but he wanted him to. More than he could say.

Wearing dresses and lingerie … it wasn’t something Wade needed. But he liked it. A lot. And if Peter liked it too ...

“That’s your idea of better?” Deadpool asked, but even to his own ears, he sounded unsure and didn’t manage to convey the appropriate amount of disdain for Peter’s skillz, or lack thereof.

“Look, the first thing that popped into my head was ‘I see Deadpool’s snake dance,’ so yes, so much better,” Peter said, finally, _finally_ pushing his damn cup and everything else down his thighs. 

Wade didn’t know how to ask if Peter was actually seriously, not when it mattered like this, so he resolved not to, decided to shut it down, and he closed his eyes, trying to push his thoughts away and get lost in the feel of Peter’s hand on him.

“But if I …” Peter stroked him slowly, and there was something in his voice that made Wade ache. “ _Would_ you wear something for me? Under the dress … next time?”

Wade couldn’t stop the shudder that went through him, and he felt too overwhelmed to even try. He thought about wearing one of the lingerie sets he had at home for Peter, something lacy or sheer or slit up the middle so he wouldn’t even have to take them off if he didn’t want to. They were his dirty little secret, hidden in a box in the room where he kept all his guns and ammo, because he’d _known_ that they’d be too much for Peter.

But here was Peter saying he wanted to see Wade in something pretty under his dress, and he gasped, “Yeah, please, oh please,” like he was the one asking instead of Peter, and he clutched Peter’s shoulders like a lifeline, whimpering when Peter’s lips wrapped around him. 

He wanted to look, wanted to watch his Baby Boy’s mouth on him, his own version of heaven, but Peter was hidden by the skirt, and there was something about seeing the material bulge and ripple as Peter sucked him that made it impossible to move it out of the way.

His knees quivered when Peter started taking him down his throat—fucking _quivered_ —and Wade would’ve made a Southern belle joke if Peter had called him out on it, but Peter just took him deeper, swallowing around him. It made Wade whine, loud and desperate, covering his mouth with his left hand to stop from babbling five different kinds of nonsense, and apparently Peter had noticed the quivering after all since his hands came up to pin Wade’s hips against the wall. 

Now Wade tried to be a gentleman when it came to blow jobs, because he wanted his partner to give him more, right, so he never grabbed unless they asked him, and he never choked anyone—unless, once again, they asked him, because some people were awesome kinky fucks. 

But Peter’s hands on him? Holding him down? He’d always known there were a few wires crossed in his brain, but the steady pressure on his hips was like permission to try and arch off the wall, to pull on the spandex with his free hand and try and fuck Peter’s throat while moaning like a banshee and being woefully unsuccessful about stifling any of the noises he was making—and getting exactly nowhere as Peter kept him exactly where he wanted him.

The pleasure built higher and higher, and just when Wade decided he wouldn’t be able to last a second more, Peter pulled off and said, “Hold your skirt up for me, Sweetheart. We wouldn’t want it to get dirty.”

“It wouldn’t _get_ dirty if you’d swallow,” Wade rasped, but he was on automatic, his mind reeling. Sweetheart? Peter never called him that. He called him by his name mostly, or “babe” sometimes, or even “hey, asshole” when the mood was just right, but never “sweetheart.” “Sweetheart” was soft and tender and reserved for someone precious. 

No one ever called Wade Wilson that.

He honestly didn’t hear Peter’s response, but he realized Peter must’ve said something by the expectant silence that followed.

“What-what did you say?” he asked, and he felt shaky, dizzy, and his fingers were actually trembling as he slowly raised his skirt to his waist.

He wished he could see more of Peter’s face than just his mouth and nose, because he was looking at Wade from the ground, just looking at him, and he didn’t know what Peter was thinking.

“What?” he said, harsher than he’d intended, but feeling completely laid bare, even though the only parts of him that were uncovered were the bottom of his face and his groin. He started to lower his hands.

“Nothing,” Peter said, squeezing him gently. “You just look so good like that, I couldn’t help but stare.”

“Yeah?” Why did his voice sound so hoarse? “You like?” He tried to strike a half-hearted pose, but Peter’s hands on his hips kept him still, and it was getting too intense. He had the insane urge to run.

“I like it so much I’m about to come in my damn pants,” Peter said, letting out a huff of laughter, and then he _rubbed his fucking cheek against Wade’s wet cock_ , and shit, the sweetheart thing had pushed his orgasm back, but the sight still made Wade make the most humiliating sound he’d ever heard in entire freaking life. 

“You’re so fucking pretty, Baby Doll.”

Nevermind. Second most humiliating sound, it turned out, the second one softer and so, so surprised. Shit.

Peter didn’t give him a chance to respond, because he was taking him back into his mouth, but this time, he kept his eyes on Wade as he sucked him and bobbed his head, kept one hand on his hip but used the other one to stroke his thigh, his balls, to reach under him and tease between his legs. 

And Wade couldn’t look away.

He wanted to, though, just felt—he didn’t know what he felt actually but like he was on his last legs, like he was going to fucking come apart, but when Peter finally broke eye contact in order to fumble around for the lube in Wade’s pouch, it was worse somehow, and all he wanted was Peter looking at him, _seeing_ him again.

And then Peter said, “Can I make you wet you for me, Beautiful?” while he slicked up his fingers, and _holy shit_ , Wade hadn’t thought his heart rate could go any higher, but he’d been wrong.

He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded jerkily, the tulle rasping against itself as he crushed both skirt and petticoat in his hands.

“I _really_ want to be inside you right now,” Peter said, as he slid, one, then two, then three fingers into him, and even with one hand holding him down, Wade nearly fell to his knees at the stretch, gasping and cursing. If there’d actually been any hope of keeping his dress clean, it was gone now, his cock spurting precome all over the place. 

Peter knew how to wreck him in all the best ways, and he didn’t hesitate to put his knowledge to good use.

“But you deserve better than that, don’t you, Darling?” Peter asked, eliciting a loud cry that Wade couldn’t prevent as he started ruthlessly finger fucking Wade, rubbing over his prostate again and again, and shit, everything was just _more_ somehow than it normally was, and Wade didn’t know how he was supposed to handle any of it. 

“You deserve a big, soft bed and candles,” Peter said, leaning forward to suck at the head of Wade’s cock briefly before popping off, Wade’s legs shaking with the strain, and Wade gave up on being quiet, started moaning and hollering to his heart’s content. “I’ll strip you down and open you up with my tongue—”

“I’m going to come on your fucking face if you keep talking like that,” Wade managed to say, but it was a little after the fact. 

Um. 

Well, shit.

He actually did feel bad, but it didn’t stop him from saying, “I bet you didn’t see _that_ coming,” and then giggling like a maniac while Peter sighed and wiped at his mask and face. He felt a little high.

He hadn’t meant to break the mood, but he could admit to himself that he was glad it’d happened. The way Peter had been talking … the things he’d said and the endearments he’d used … Wade didn’t want to think about how much he’d liked it. Not right now anyway. Bad enough that Peter had appreciated the dress, but the rest of it too? It was too much. Just … so much. Wade felt unsteady, and he needed a few minutes to get back in the right head space where Peter didn’t call him pet names and he didn’t want them.

Never mind that he didn't think he'd actually be able to do it.

He’d stopped laughing by the time Peter started pulling his pants back up and then fixed his skirt so it lay demurely against his legs—or as demurely as it could, considering how crumpled it was. Peter, on the other hand, was going to get arrested if he walked in public like that. Spandex didn’t hide anything.

“Hey, you didn’t—” 

“I’m going to wait,” Peter said, grimacing before pulling down his mask. “I don’t have the same recovery time as you do, and I believe I made some promises.”

Wade’s breath hitched. “Yeah?” he asked, suddenly feeling _shy_ of all things, and what was wrong with him?

“Yeah. C’mon, Sweetheart,” Peter said, holding out his hand. “Let’s go home.”

He couldn’t reply over the lump in his throat, didn’t think he could’ve figured out the right words even if he _had_ been able to say anything, but he took Peter’s hand tightly in his, and he held onto him the whole way back.


End file.
